


Mala Mens

by whitchry9



Series: Carpe Diem [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Epilepsy, Gen, Seizures, hurt comfort, sick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-01
Updated: 2013-04-01
Packaged: 2017-12-07 05:24:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/744761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitchry9/pseuds/whitchry9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is sick, Gladstone is displeased, and John is worried.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mala Mens

When John arrived home from shopping, Sherlock was sleeping on the couch.

This made John pause for a minute, because when he'd left not even an hour ago, Sherlock had been deeply involved in an experiment involving burning things. Sherlock didn't often give up experiments for nap time on the couch.

His first thought was fire, because it would be typical of Sherlock to forget about the bunsen burner, leaving it to light the flat on fire.

But it was turned off.

John's second thought was seizure, but Sherlock had gotten good about sending John a text warning him it was about to happen. There had been no text today.

Still, John hovered over Sherlock, pondering whether to wake him or not, when Sherlock stirred and mumbled at him.

“Go 'way,” he said into the pillow.

John sighed. “Are you okay?”

“Tired.”

John pondered that one. “Why?”

“Didn't have a seizure,” Sherlock replied, effectively ruining John's line of questioning.

“Are you going to?”

Sherlock snorted. “Ask Gladstone,” he replied, waving a hand at the dog perched quite comfortably on his legs.

John examined Gladstone, who looked back at him with equal interest. She seemed quite content.

“Alright,” John relented. Sherlock rolled over slightly, Gladstone sighing with displeasure as she was moved.

John headed to the kitchen where he left the grocery bags, wondering what he would find in the fridge.

Before he could open it and find a head staring at him, or perhaps some thumbs, or maybe even a foot, he spotted the cup of juice and pills he'd left out for Sherlock before he left with strict orders to take them.

Sighing loudly to ensure Sherlock would hear him, John picked them both up and stood over Sherlock.

“Forget something?” he asked pointedly.

Sherlock growled at him but held out a hand for the pills. He threw them in his mouth and held his hand out for the juice, swallowing a mouthful of it and making a face.

“Do I need to check and make sure you actually swallowed them?” John teased.

Sherlock only glared at him.

“Alright then,” John replied, turning to actually put the groceries away this time.

Surprisingly enough, there was nothing major in the fridge, only some petri dishes filled with mould, which John pushed to one side, loading in the milk that always seemed to disappear.

There was stirring from the couch, and the sound of Gladstone complaining as she was displaced yet again.

Footsteps padded beside John as he tried to fit in the apples amongst the various... fruits that were also growing fuzz.

There was the slam of a door, and the unmistakeable sound of someone throwing up.

John groaned, resting his head against the door of the fridge.

Sherlock emerged a moment later, looking pale and dishevelled.

“I may be sick,” he informed John morosely.

John sighed. “So you threw up your meds?”

Sherlock nodded, crawling back onto the couch with Gladstone, who looked worried.

John rubbed his face with his hands, thinking.

“Can you try and take them without juice? Let them dissolve under your tongue or something?”

Sherlock stared at him like he was stupid. Perhaps he was. “Try it?” John pleaded.

“Fine,” he grumbled.

John sighed, searching the cupboards for a bin for Sherlock to throw up in, just in case. It was going to be a long day. Sick and grumpy Sherlocks made for tired and impatient Johns.

It was then that Gladstone began to paw at Sherlock, whining insistently.

Fantastic.

 

Sherlock looked absolutely miserable.

He'd had three seizures in the past eight hours.

He couldn't keep his meds down, or anything else for that matter.

John was growing very, very, concerned, as was Gladstone. With Sherlock having that many seizures, she was practically frantic all the time, only settling down after the seizure was over. Which never lasted long.

John was debating taking him to the hospital

 

Sherlock was sleeping, utterly exhausted after the last seizure, which had lasted close to the five minute mark. Gladstone was perched on his lap, observing him carefully, but was relatively calm. Sherlock had awoken from the seizure and demanded his usual orange juice, which promptly came back up, as it had done the two times prior.

Thankfully, Sherlock had relatively good aim and managed not to throw up on himself or John, but the floor had been taking a beating.

John hoped Mrs Hudson would be understanding.

 

He'd received a text from Mycroft, telling him that it was only necessary to take Sherlock to the hospital if a seizure lasted longer than seven minutes, or if he didn't wake up between them. John was dubious, but this was Mycroft after all, the man who knew everything about Sherlock, and possibly even more than Sherlock knew about himself.

 

Glancing at Sherlock to ensure he was still sleeping, John slouched in his chair and pulled out the medical file Mycroft had given him after he'd found out about the epilepsy. Barely three minutes after he began rereading for what must have been at least the fifth time, there was a knock at the door. John threw the file down.

“I swear, if that is you Lestrade...” he muttered under his breath as he hopped down the stairs. _Sherlock still needs to fix the bell,_ John noted.

But when John flung the door open, fully prepared to yell at Lestrade, he discovered instead a man in a dark suit with sunglasses.

“Doctor Watson?” he asked.

John hesitated before nodding. He'd had enough experience that he knew this wouldn't always end well.

But the man didn't attempt to kidnap him or drug him, and instead handed him a bag and left.

John only shrugged, shaking his head, and carried the bag back upstairs. Sherlock hadn't moved.

John hesitated again before opening the bag, but decided what the hell, and was pleasantly surprised at the contents. Instead of a bomb or something equally fun, it contained an assortment of medical supplies, IV lines, drugs, and needles.

Mycroft.

John glanced around the room, feeling very exposed, but gave up, knowing it was useless. Instead, he dragged the bag over to Sherlock, pulling out all the necessary supplies to start a line to rehydrate him and get his meds into him, hopefully stopping this dreadful cycle.

 

“Sherlock,” John said, shaking his shoulder lightly.

Sherlock grunted at him.

“I'm going to put in an IV so I can give you your meds, okay?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock muttered, holding an arm up and giving a finger in the direction of the bookshelf. John made a note to look there later for cameras.

When that was done, he held that arm out for John to poke and prod at, eventually finding a vein that he was satisfied with.

He taped it down securely and hung the bag from the wall, which for some reason had a hook stuck in one of the bullet holes. John shook his head. He didn't want to know.

Gladstone whined at this intrusion, sniffing the medical tape on Sherlock's arm and nosing at it, but settled down after she determined it was alright. John had to admit one of the cutest things he'd ever seen was when Gladstone would curl up in a ball on Sherlock's lap while he drooled in his sleep. It added a certain level of humanity to the detective that John suspected most people never saw.

He smiled at the sight before remembering what he was supposed to be doing. He pulled the bag over and dug through it, reading the labels on the labels on the vials of drugs.

He finally settled on one, grabbing a syringe to draw up a dose when Gladstone started whining again.

Sighing, John turned to look at her.

She wasn't exactly pawing at Sherlock, but she didn't seem happy.

“What is it Gladstone?” John asked her, hoping that Sherlock was indeed asleep and not listening.

She let out a little bark in response and hopped off the couch, circling around him.

Not at all her usual indicator of a seizure.

“Are you hungry?” John asked her. No response, but he really wasn't sure what he should have expected. He tried again. “Do you have to go out?” She wagged her tail, which could have been a yes, or perhaps just a coincidence.

He shook his head, returning to the task at hand when Gladstone decided John wasn't listening. She jumped up and pulled her leash off the coat rack, dragging it over to Sherlock, and after he didn't seem to acknowledge her existence, seemed to determine John would also be acceptable. She sat in front of him, leash in her mouth, tail wagging, looking for all the world to see like she was completely prepared to go out.

John sighed. “Fine. But it'll be quick. Two minutes.” He bent down to clip the leash to her collar, shaking the slobber off his hand that the leash had become soaked in.

He glanced at Sherlock.

“We'll be right back. Feeling okay?”

Sherlock made a little noise, and John wasn't sure what that meant, but Gladstone seemed content with leaving her master alone.

 

Gladstone may have become a little distracted by a squirrel, and John may have become a little distracted by the argument in the sandwich shop, but really, it was only three minutes, tops, and there was no reason for Sherlock to be all in a tizzy when they got back.

And yet, he was.

He'd managed to get himself in a sitting position despite how pale he looked, and managed to put on his best 'insulted by your stupidity' face.

“You left,” he pouted.

“Yes,” John replied, returning Gladstone's leash to the hook. “Gladstone had to go out and you were in no state to take her. Besides, I did warn you.”

If possible, Sherlock's scowl deepened.

“That hardly counted.”

Gladstone returned to her spot perched on Sherlock's legs and John returned to drawing up the syringe of medication, carefully flicking it with his finger to remove the air bubbles.

John sat on the table near Sherlock, who'd since slouched back down. He checked the line before injecting the medication into the bag.

“That should help,” John informed him.

Sherlock was silent, still sulking apparently.

John sighed, shaking his head. He recapped the needle and put it back in the bag. He'd take it to the surgery and dispose of it properly.

He gave Gladstone's ears a rubbing and she sighed in contentment.

“It's nice to know someone in the flat appreciates me,” he told her, sure that Sherlock would have something to say to that. But he was still silent. Hopefully sleeping.

 

Despite Sherlock's illness, it was no reason for John not to eat. As long as it wasn't too smelly or anything, Sherlock should be fine and probably sleep through it. And John had just gotten groceries, which meant there were safe things in the fridge to eat. So he grabbed some bread and cheese and was in the process of heating up a pan to make himself a grilled cheese, and maybe some soup that Sherlock could eat later, when there was a thump. John spun around, concerned as to what that could be. Gladstone was now on the floor, looking quite put out, and almost a little bit hurt. But the cause for that was Sherlock, who had stiffened. _Tonic phase_ John's brain told him, utterly panicked.

He rushed to Sherlock's side, stiffened to the point where his body didn't fit on the couch, back arched in the air, feet hanging off the end. The couch was not an ideal place for Sherlock to have a seizure, which was why when Gladstone warned him, Sherlock usually went to his bed, which was bigger and had more room for him to flail about.

Gladstone... why didn't she say anything this time? John shook his head. _Now is not the time to ponder._ But his brain wasn't listening. _Gladstone must have missed the initial stage that alerted her to the seizure while she was outside with you._ John shook his head. But what was he supposed to do? Refuse to take Gladstone out? Drag Sherlock with them? There was no right answer in this situation. John could only deal with the consequences.

Sherlock was entering the clonic phase of the seizure now. Limbs flailing everywhere, threatening to bruise or break themselves. This was when John remembered the IV line. But it was too late for that. Although John had taped it well, taping it for a bored Sherlock and taping it for a seizing Sherlock were two different things. But the line was no longer in Sherlock's arm, which was now bleeding, probably all over the place.

John grabbed a washcloth and stuck it on Sherlock's arm, holding it down despite everything he knew about seizure treatment. _Tape. Tape it._ Thankfully, the bag of supplies was still nearby and he managed to stick it to his arm with copious amounts of tape.

There was really nothing else he could do besides keep Sherlock from falling off the couch or slamming his head off the armrests. He hadn't broken anything during a seizure since his childhood and John was determined to keep it that way.

 

 

When the seizure stopped, at the six and a half minute mark, causing John to grab his phone and tap in the emergency number, ridiculously close to pressing the call button when Sherlock finally slowed, then stilled.

John figured that would be the best time to replace the IV line, when he was out of it and unable to put up a fight. So he grabbed the other arm, figuring the original would be shot for a while, and prepped the site. Gladstone had been pacing throughout the whole seizure, making whining noises and pawing at John as though he could fix it. She was settled now, perched on the floor near Sherlock's head, supervising John.

 

John used about a mile of tape this time, taping it up and down his arm as well as splinting his arm. That way, if he had another seizure (heaven forbid) it shouldn't come out.

But if he had another seizure, John would take him to the hospital. He'd decided that and damn whatever Sherlock or Mycroft thought. So hopefully the meds would work and Sherlock would go seizure free for the rest of the day, just sleeping it off.

He peeled the washcloth off the other arm to inspect the damage caused by the violet tremors. It wasn't bad, considering, so John wiped off the blood and stuck a small plaster on it.

 

Of course, there was something else that John was not going to tackle. A common side effect of a seizure, but never one that was pleasant. Sherlock was fortunate enough that it didn't often happen, probably as a result of his stupid abstinence from food and drink that he was constantly mildly dehydrated. But apparently the IV fluids had rehydrated him and had led to... this.

John stood over Sherlock, pondering what to do.

He finally decided to strip his pants off, covering him up with a blanket. He could deal with the rest after.

And the cushion...

 _Mycroft can dry clean it for us,_ he decided.

 

So he left Sherlock there, Gladstone hopping up to join him, curled up on his lap to keep him safe and warm, and John suddenly realized how exhausted he was. It didn't matter that he'd only gone shopping and returned home to take care of Sherlock, because taking care of him was physically and emotionally draining. John felt just as exhausted after a seizure as Sherlock must have. No wonder he'd sleep for hours afterwards.

So he dragged his chair over to the couch, not caring if Mrs Hudson would be irked about possible marks he'd leave on the floor, and tried to curl up in it. John was small, but not that small, and ended up with his feet on the coffee table to drift off.

 

He awoke sometime later because of an odd... tingling? Crawling? Sensation. He looked around, panicked, before he realized there were two eyes peering at him in the darkness. And not Gladstone's eyes because she was still snoring away.

“Sherlock?” John mumbled, still half asleep.

“John,” Sherlock replied amicably.

“Do you need something?” John said, rubbing his eyes.

“Pants,” Sherlock replied, and it took John a minute to figure out what he meant.

“Oh. Right,” he said, blushing, and glad it was too dark for Sherlock to see. “D'you want me to help you to your bedroom? Then you can sleep in there.”

Sherlock nodded, and John knew how much it meant that he was admitting he needed help.

“Come on Gladstone. Off,” John told her, shaking her awake and then attempting to shoo her. She made much moaning about the entire process, but finally got off of Sherlock's legs, sitting next to them on the floor pitifully.

John grabbed the IV bag that was still attached to Sherlock's arm and heaved him up off the couch, taking care of the heavily taped arm.

“A little overexcited?” Sherlock asked, smirking at John's handiwork.

“Shut up,” he mumbled, not wanting to tell Sherlock about what had happened to the first line, and knowing all the while he would figure it out.

Sherlock's smirk faded when he dislodged the memory of what arm John had originally put the line in and spotted the plaster.

“How many?” he asked quietly, still leaning heavily on John as they made their way down the hall.

“Four,” he replied.

Sherlock was quiet and John knew he was pondering the implications of that. From what he'd gathered from reading Sherlock's file, he probably hadn't had this many seizures in a day since he was a child, before they'd figured out the right dose and balance of meds.

“I had eleven once,” he offered as John sat him on the bed, looking for somewhere to hang the IV bag, finally spotting the nail they'd stuck in there once before, god knows why. An experiment perhaps?

“Top drawer,” Sherlock told John, seeing the blank look on his face as he turned towards the dresser. “And third drawer for the pyjamas.”

John grabbed one of each blindly and threw them at Sherlock, who smirked.

“Fantastic bedside manner,” he commented.

John glared at him and slammed the door on his way out where he came across a rather frightened Gladstone.

“Sorry,” he murmured to her, bending down to scratch her ears. They stayed like that for a minute, Gladstone humming in contentment and John enjoying the fact that something so simple could make someone so happy. It helped to balance out the flat, one of them rarely happy and the other almost constantly.

“John!” came the strangled cry from the bedroom.

John sighed and turned, not even bothering to check to see if he was allowed to come in or not, because if Sherlock was stupid enough to call him, then John was damn well coming in. Gladstone trailed on his heels and John almost stepping on her when he burst out laughing, greeted with the sight of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, quite tangled up in his pyjama pants. Apparently they were too hard to do with one unmoving arm, which it appeared Sherlock had tried to untape, unsuccessfully of course, and now the upturned tape was sticking to everything, annoying Sherlock even more.

“John, stop it,” Sherlock whined, kicking his legs around in hopes that the pyjamas would magically crawl up them.

John put on his serious face and pulled Sherlock's pants up for him, stuck the tape back down, and fell onto the floor laughing again. It seemed Gladstone was smiling at him too.

“Childish John,” Sherlock scorned, looking rather put out.

John remembered what Lestrade had said on their first night together, and repeated it.

“Well I'm dealing with a child!”

Sherlock stared blankly at John for another minute before sticking his tongue out at John, causing them both to dissolve into peals of laughter.

After a minute they both managed to catch their breath.

“Food?” John asked, not knowing what time it was for what meal.

“Mm...” Sherlock hummed. “Not now. Later. I think I'll sleep first.”

John nodded and stifled a yawn. Sleep sounded _fantastic._

“Will you be alright on your own?”

Sherlock looked at the lump on the floor, wagging her tail expectantly as she waited for permission to board the bed.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, speaking to both of them at once.

Gladstone hopped on the bed, spun around three times, and curled up right where Sherlock's head would have to go.

John chuckled and closed the door behind him, spotting the first lights of morning as he headed up to bed.

He'd text Sarah and say he'd been in late. Because screw work, all that mattered was Sherlock was doing well.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mala Mens means ill mind.


End file.
